


At The End Of Their Days

by sevtacular



Category: Bread (TV)
Genre: At The End Of The Day, F/M, Older Characters, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8922424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevtacular/pseuds/sevtacular
Summary: Two people meet by chance, many years after they last saw each other. Has life treated them well, or have they been missing something? Cat and mouse; truth or dare; cops and robbers - it's a game of wits.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Capostrophe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capostrophe/gifts).



> This was written in January 2015. The title is a shameless parody of the amazing At The End Of The Day headcanon AU by Rose. I don't mean to discredit that phenomenal series, and urge you all to read it.

At The End Of Their Days

 

 

The water swishes against the side of the docks slowly. Slowly, now, that isn't necessarily a good thing, though most would say it is. Slowly has connotations of safety and peacefulness for most, as one might comment upon the slowness and laziness of the waves at a coastal resort off the Bahamas, and feel a sense of overwhelming security that no tsunami is going to come and wash you away anytime within your stay, so you can sunbathe for as long as you like and remain unaffected by the ocean due to how slow it is. Yes, slowly would indeed have positive connotations for most. However, now, as the water gently swishes towards the bricks at the side of the docks, the owner of the eyes looking down at it can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of annoyance at just how slowly the water is moving in the now pretty desolate docks. A gloved hand grips the cold metal railing as the figure leans to look down at the water. The blue paint chips off onto the black wool, scattering it with a mottled hue that'll be a nightmare to brush off. A sigh escapes. 

 

Martina has been coming to the docks everyday for a while now. And the water is becoming less and less appealing. The slowness of it all is a reminder of just how monotonous and repetitive her entire existence has become. The slowness of it all creeping by is a living nightmare for her; she hates spending hours just being, not doing. There's nothing to do. She feels a little like the algae clinging to the murky sides of the docks, going down and down to an unknown bottom somewhere. She's just on the top where the water laps, waiting for it to come and wash over her. She hasn't succeeded yet. Some days, she would rather be at the unknown bottom, six feet under ground and eternally at rest from the boring monotony. Then, she remembers, that's more or less what's she's living right now. A long rest. And so she brushes the flecks of paint from her coat and wishes that she knew a way to sprinkle a bit of happiness back into her life. Everybody talks about what bliss retirement will be, but it isn't, not in her opinion. Retirement is just a long expanse of doing nothing, and she can't handle doing nothing for too long. She has no family to lavish attention upon, no grandchildren to look after. She doesn't even have a husband to devote her time to. She literally just has herself and even that isn't in great condition nowadays. Her legs are becoming more and more reluctant to walk her to the docks from the bus stop everyday to sit and watch the water. Her eyes need the assistance of glasses when she wants to read the news. As for her ears, well, she's not entirely sure how well they're working, because she has nobody to test them out upon. Only the odd bird at the docks or the cough of a shopkeeper heading outside of their premises for a smoke by the square of water. A whirring sound cuts through her thoughts like a blade, splitting them into little flecks like the paint on her gloves. They'll return later though, when she's alone in her house. A boat is chugging its way across the water, one of the little tourist vessels which a company owns to make a slim profit out of the few people who come by. Students from the universities, mainly. Or Beatles fans. There's the museum nearby, of course. A couple of these boats have capsized recently, and Martina wonders why she hasn't been lucky enough to be there when it happens. She rolls her eyes and scoffs at herself - she is actually wishing a boat full of humans to capsize just so she can have a little entertainment in her boring life? She really must have hit the bottom of human life. She would wander round the shops, but there's her legs to think about, and there's nothing exciting in them. A couple of cafes, some sweet shops, modern restaurants, and some tacky and overpriced model shops for the tourists. There's the art gallery along the way too, but again, it has no appeal to her.

 

Martina sighs, and pulls herself up to her feet, clutching the edge of the bench to steady herself. Ever the stubborn character, she is refusing to use a walking stick, no matter now many times her doctor advises her it is for the best, she isn't getting any younger you know. Well, Martina thinks, knowing she's getting older is one thing, but having a doctor blatantly tell you that you are probably going to die eventually due to old age and has she looked into care homes is a little insulting. She's got her government pension from all those years sat behind a DHSS counter, working her way up through the food chain of clerks, and as she's on her own, no grandchildren, no family, her pension covers her fine. A couple of tins of tomatoes, a loaf of sliced white bread, a jar of jam, orange juice and fresh vegetables generally occupy her weekly shopping list, none of which are especially expensive. And she doesn't have a car, why should she bother when she's got her OAP bus pass? No fancy trips, just the docks most days, and the shops. Yes, Martina is managing retirement fairly well, she thinks. The only issue now is the fact that she's bored. She wants an adventure. Or at least something vaguely special to happen. And now she finds herself picking up some tourist leaflets from the bus station, seeing what Liverpool has to offer for her. Upon her arrival back at her house, a little bungalow off a main road (good bus links, she thought), she sits at her table and browses the leaflets with a cup of tea. Formby looks lovely, but at her age there isn't much point going to see sand dunes and squirrels on her own. The football stadium provides a large mass of people contributing to the city's economy nowadays, but Martina has never been interested with sport really. So what is there to do? Chinatown is meant to be exciting, but Martina feels like she wouldn't fit in there at all - an old lady wandering through a cultural hub quite probably filled with students. She sighs. Back to the docks it'll be then.

 

And so she continues visiting the Royal Albert Docks on a daily basis, watching the water ripple gently against the sides of its container. One day, a school trip appears, and Martina is privileged to gaggles of young teenagers rushing around with feigned excitement, clutching printed out maps to their chests and feeling like heroes when they find a map placed there by Liverpool tourist board which they can just copy off and not have to attempt to draw anything. Martina sits and listens to their shrieks and squeaks, reminiscing over the days when she was a carefree young teenager, and who fancied who and which pop star was the most attractive were all that mattered, and a trip out was an exciting prospect. Now a trip is a bore, not a treat. When the teachers reappear from one of the cafés, the pupils leave, and the docks are filled with quiet once again. Another day, another trip appears, this time from a college, and groups of alternatively dressed students mill around, posing for photos by the water, and taking shots of the buildings in order to paint them at a later date. They then go off into the Tate Modern Gallery, to study masterpieces whilst professionals and tutors explain the significance of colour and shading to their young students. Soon though, the peace is returned once more, and Martina can sit, watching the water lapping against the sides, and wishing that her life was a little more exciting, so that a school trip at a Liverpool tourist attraction is not the most thrilling thing to break her boring existence of retirement. Perhaps, she thinks, living her life as a recluse, not being able to trust people, has backfired. Because now she has nobody. And she needs somebody to talk to who isn't a shopkeeper having a morning smoke. Little does she realise, somebody is not that far away.

 

Martina has been quarantined to her house for a few days, and she's finally ready to go out again. She succumbed to the incessant letters and advertisements and got the flu jab. Not that she had a choice; it was made compulsory for everyone over the age of 65. Basically, she was forced to have a needle filled with some dormant strains of flu stabbed into her so that her lymphocytes and other strange things in her immune system could develop an immunity against this particular strain of flu. The only issue is, she got a different type of flu, and her body wasn't prepared with the correct antibodies to fight it. So she's been holed up in her house for the last week or so, drinking medicines and sneezing and swearing and aching and frankly wishing that she were dead. However, strong and stubborn and determined as ever, she has managed to fight the virus, and is now ready to journey to the docks again. It is a grey day, dismal and dreary, but Martina is desperate to leave the house, and so she heads on the bus to the docks, and sits down at her usual spot. Soon after though, another figure approaches, and sits at the other end of her bench. She glances sideways. A male, probably about her age, greying hair, and sat on her bench. She wonders why he's done it, but ignores the urge to ask him as that would be rude and she can't be bothered. Then, as she's about to look away, he glances in her direction, and something shifts between them, and Martina can feel it. What it is, she's not sure, but she feels compelled to look away then back again, and he's doing the same thing. Martina realises exactly what the feeling is. It is the feeling of when you see someone and recognise them, but you can't place where you know them from, so you spend your time sharing furtive glances instead, as each tries to place a name and location to the familiar set of eyes. Those eyes. Martina recognises them, though they're nor exactly like what she's seen in the past. They're an older version she's recognised, but who is the man next to her? She's had very few men in her life, all disasters. The disaster of those disasters being Shifty Boswell, the slime of the Earth and the grime of her soul, forever out to commit some form of crime or another then blame it on anyone but himself. It isn't him before her, she knows that, this man is too well dressed, with an aura of someone determined to grow old in style as he leans back nonchalantly against the mottled wood of the bench last varnished ten years ago when people actually cared about Liverpool docks. Yes, Martina thinks, he's confident, this one. And then a memory strikes her, a memory of her sat behind a desk, sniffing the air and commenting upon the scent of leather in the air. And now she looks at him properly, yes, there is that leather coat. A design much more suited to an older person, the leather subtler and softer looking, and jeans in place of the leather trousers, but those eyes are most definitely his. She realises they're without the old sparkle and charm they used to have, and that's why she didn't recognise him originally. She wonders if he has worked out who she is yet, her once dark hair now greying, and harsher lines around her mouth from the time spent telling people no, you can't have an extra allowance. She smiles at him, as, really, what has she to lose? She has wanted a change, and here he is, sat on her bench and humming to himself aimlessly. He looks back up at her eyes.

 

"Why, if it isn't the lovely Martina!" And then she realises that he has recognised her all along, was waiting for her to show she recognises him, another game like the ones they played so long ago: cat and mouse; truth or dare; cops and robbers - one chasing the other in a seemingly never ending dance of wits. 

 

"Hello Mister Boswell, and what soliloquy are yer gonna treat me to today?" He laughs at her comment, and some of the old sparkle crosses his eyes fleetingly again. He stretches his legs out.

 

"Nothin' at all, just clearin' me thoughts, you know? Retirement has drawn me to the docks,"

 

"Retirement would imply yer worked honestly in the first place," she has made him laugh again, "and you've never been here before, I've sat here more or less everyday for the past year or so, and you've appeared today."

 

"Fourth day today. I've been alone the past few though."

 

"I've had the flu. Stupid bloody doctor forcing me to have a stupid bloody injection that didn't bloody work." Martina grumbles to herself and he smiles.

 

"I'd almost quite forgotten that wit of yours, sweetheart. Where have you been, eh?" He says the last part almost wistfully, and Martina has to wonder just what Joey Boswell has been up to these past few years. She hasn't seen hind nor hair of the Boswell clan for over a decade now, nearing two, possibly three in fact. And in that time, she has wondered what had happened to them. Had they all lived comfortably while Martina struggled through the perils of aging and retirement? The blasted menopause, which confirmed Martina would never have children. The end of the wedding invites, where Martina realised she was beyond the age for dating. She didn't mind, she had never yearned for a domestic life of babies and all that business, but still, knowing the roads were completely closed off had been a little depressing. And meanwhile, where had the elusive Joey Boswell been? It wasn't as if she hadn't thought of him over the past several years, not that she would admit it openly, but sometimes, on a lonely night spent lying uncomfortably on her orthopaedic mattress, she would conjure up thoughts of the semi-flirtatious banter she had once enjoyed as a perk of the job come the end of the twentieth century. The man himself when she looks over appears as pensive and deep in thought as she is, so she leaves him to his thoughts, and settles for watching him, his hair stirring in the breeze, everything is peaceful - and then the heavens open. Rain splashing down on them, threatening to destroy her already weak immune system with pneumonia or something else of the sort. She stands carefully, not wanting to appear weak and fall. He too stands up, and they walk out of the docks together, he towards the small car park, her towards the bus stop. He calls over through the rain.

 

"Want a lift?" She looks at the increasingly heavy raindrops around her, then at his car, then at the bus timetable. The next bus is due in fifteen minutes, and knowing Liverpool transport that almost undoubtedly mean thirty. In the pouring rain. She is going to refuse, save face and find shelter under a canopy, but then she sneezes. Drat. The flu isn't completely gone. He is walking over to her, more a lollop than a bound nowadays, and escorting her back to his car, as she sneezes violently everywhere, feeling as if her lungs are going to come out of her throat anytime soon. Directing him back to her bungalow, she thanks him quietly before getting out and unlocking her door. She switches the heating on, and makes to get changed. Instead, she collapses onto her bed and sleeps for eighteen hours straight.

 

When she wakes up, her head is pounding and she is roasting. Realising what she must have done, she hauls herself up and switches the heating off. She has probably used three days worth of pension on that careless expenditure. She sits at her kitchen table, drinking tea with lemon in, and thinking about her encounter. Joey Boswell is back in her life once again, and invading her thoughts as he had done when she worked at the social security, when she was younger and girlier and could afford to wish of relationships behind her harsh persona. Now, life is set. She probably won't see him again, he will be off back to his wife or children or grandchildren. Still, it was nice to have a catch up. The letterbox rattles, and she wonders grumpily who is calling. Probably those bloody churchmen again, trying to convert her via leaflets and pestering and incessant pleading. Martina will believe in God in her own way, thank you very much. Putting her best scowl in and preparing a solid rendition of 'sod off', she opens the door on the chain, and doesn't know how to react. Her mouth responds quicker than the rest of her.

 

"Joey blooming Boswell, what are you doing here?" She pulls the chain off, and opens the door to let him in, because hospitality is meant to be what old people are good at, and to be honest, she's rather lonely. She nods politely as he enters, and when she's shut the door and locked it he grins.

 

"Greetings!" And then she catches his eye and they're both laughing in rasps, their bodies aching because elderly people aren't built to laugh like that. She shows him into the kitchen and he takes a seat on her instructions. She sits across the table from him.

 

"Beings back memories eh, you across a countertop from me?" She smiles gently, and realises she doesn't smile, hasn't done in years, so why is she now? He nods, and then attempts to flick his hair like he used to be able to.

 

"Well, sunshine, I am here today to explain how in this tragic world,"

 

"There's no work to find and as the whole world turns to brown bread around yer, the DHSS is a beacon of hope in your dark hours!" They chorus together, and then they're laughing again. Joey grins.

 

"You remembered!"

 

"How could I forget? One of the last ones you used before we parted ways," she smiles again, and then coughs violently. Joey is up instantly, grabbing the bottle of medicine from the kitchen counter top and pouring her a spoonful, which she takes gratefully. He ain't that bad, really, she thinks. But why is he here?

 

"Joey, would you mind telling me why you're here? I mean, ain't you got a wife or family or something?" He visibly crumples at her words, and she begins to feel guilty. She pats his back awkwardly, not used to dealing with people. "You okay?" He shakes his head, then nods, then sits back up.

 

"Oh, you know, retirement, getting old, the usual. Me mam's passed on-" he gulps "I have no proper wife or kids or grandkids, Roxy left me years ago-" he sniffs "and me relatives can cope without me now." Then he's collapsed again, and, Martina realises, he hasn't been sailing away whilst she's been suffering, he's been going through awful things like she has. He's just not used to loneliness like she is. They're both depressed pensioners, trying to muddle through life until death finally claims them. She pats his arm again.

 

"I am sorry, Joey. If it 'elps, you get used to being alone. I have." It isn't much of a consolation, but it is the best she's got, and he must realise this, as he looks up and smiles weakly again.

 

"Oh, Missy Martina, I've missed you." He stands and walks around the table, and he hugs her. She feels weird. Martina hasn't has close personal contact with anyone for at least half of her lifetime now, and so this hug results in her body wondering what to do. She tentatively places her arms around his back, and her head against his chest. Is this what she wanted as her dramatic change in retirement? An old client to be hugging her in her kitchen as she wonders what to do to console him? At least he seems to be appreciative of her company, he has come of his own accord. They stay like this for some time, almost like they're young again, and can't let go of something they've wanted all their life, except now they're four times the age of those young couples, and they've lived a lifetime of uncertainty, guided by nothing at all, really. There was no star above a stable for them to follow. He steps back, and she holds on to the table for support. Long times of standing tire her legs out now, and she won't have that walking stick, that's just blatantly admitting to the world you're decrepit and you know it. Joey smiles at her, then backs away, saying thank you, but he should go. And she watches him exit her house, wondering how that one man can cause her to feel so many emotions all at once, even now she's way past retired.

 

A few days later, she's well again, and the air looks clearer. And so off she goes to the docks, as usual. And as she sits watching the water lap at the sides, some gulls fly past, cawing loudly. And a shopkeeper has his morning smoke. And a voice appears behind her.

 

"Good morning, Martina." And all is well in her sad little world. 

 

It becomes a routine. As most elderly people play bowls or go to luncheon clubs or visit grandchildren, Martina meets Joey at the docks everyday more or less and they sit in comfortable companionship, watching the water lap against the sides and occasionally talking about what sort of day they're having. And, Martina finds, she's happier than she was. Her lonely little bubble of retirement has been popped, and now she isn't a little old lady going to the docks without a purpose, she's an elderly woman going to catch up with her elderly friends. Well, friend. But still, you can't have everything, as Martina well knows. She's not going today though, she's got a doctors appointment, as he full well knows, so she finds herself sat in a modernised surgery, watching a screen that hasn't been updated since the building was built a few years back, and wishing she was anywhere but here. After an age, her name flashes up and she totters down a clinical looking corridor towards her consulting room. Honestly, she thinks, what happened to friendly surgeries in large houses where people sat and chatted and children played and you didn't have to hike around a glass box to find your GP. Eventually, she goes in and sits, catching her breath and glad to rest her legs. Her doctor, a young upstart with about as much sympathy as a toothbrush smiles scarily at her, and asks her if she has considered a walking stick, and Martina glares at him. The doctor pats her knee gently, then looks at his computer screen. And, all of a sudden, Martina can tell that this appointment is going to be a bit different from the others she has experienced.

 

Martina is aware of who is stood behind the front door before they've even finished knocking. Hauling herself up, she unlocks it, and lets him in wordlessly. Ushering him into the kitchen, they sit at the table, and simultaneously slump forwards. They look up, and smile sadly at one another. The air is heavy with unspoken emotion of a melancholy aura. Martina breaks the silence first.

 

"So. How was it at the docks today, uneventful as ever?"

 

"I didn't go." This is news to her, and she raises her eyebrows.

 

"Oh?"

"I received a letter." He pats his jacket pocket, and sighs. For the first time, she notices his eyes are bloodshot. He's been crying. Well, that makes two of them then. As it turns out, old age had turned Roxy into a jealous, spiteful old hag, and she knows just where to wound Joey. Apparently she's been like this for years, and numerous legal advisors have told him to ignore any method she uses of contacting him, and so he has. And still she finds ways to send him letters, demanding things he hasn't got, and refusing to let him get on with retirement peacefully. He's clearly in pain, and Martina realises he hasn't told anybody this in this much detail before. She's getting good at realising things, though, she thinks wistfully, it is probably the only thing she's good at doing nowadays. When Joey finishes, he chokes back a sob, and she pats his arm, the only comfort she can offer. He looks at her.

 

"So. What about you? How was Dr Grumpy Student?" He's trying to make her smile, remembering how she was moaning about her doctor the other day, and it pains her to tell him. But she's going to have to. He's opened up to her, and he would have to find out sooner or later anyway.

 

"Joey, I'm ill. I've got osteoarthritis of the knee, and it is only going to get worse, the ligaments have rubbed so close together now." She puts her head in her hands, and can't bear to look at him, to continue talking. He lifts her head up, and smiles comfortingly.

 

"Don't worry, everyone gets creaky joints at some point." She stops him by raising her hand. And coughing.

 

"I've also got bronchitis. But it could possibly be bronchopneumonia, I had a chest scan today so they can see for good. And that could kill me. Sorry, Joey." She coughs again, and his eyes get even dimmer. "O' course, it might get cleared up by the antibiotics they give me, but... But..." She splutters, and he covers her hand in his.

 

"But?"

 

"They're gonna put me in an 'ome." She gestures around her, and Joey realises there are leaflets for medical care centres and hospices that haven't been there before. He gasps, his problem going to the back of his mind.

 

"Why a home?"

 

"I live on me own, an' they think I will be better off where there's other people to look after me. Cook, clean, give me me medication and the like. An 'ome. Honestly. I think I may have sunk below low now." She collapses once more, and Joey gets the overwhelming urge to hug her again. So he does. Martina knows Joey is behind her, his arms around her and his cheek on her hair, and she can feel the moist patch where his skin is. He doesn't want her to know he is crying, that she has caused him to cry. Her mind goes back to all those years ago, when she thought Joey Boswell crying would be the best sight in the world. Now, now it is just an extension of her own sorry state of affairs. He pulls back, and goes into the hallway. She can hear him pick up the phone, and wonders what he's doing. But the emotion has tired her out, and with one last hacking cough, Martina falls asleep. 

 

Martina wakes up to the feeling of a figure next to her bed. She sleepily tries to recall a past series of events, then realises that she didn't consciously move to the bedroom. Whoever is next to her must have moved her. She opens her eyes, and takes in the man next to her.

 

"Greetings," he whispers softly. She smiles, as she realises he's sat on a chair he's brought in from the kitchen. He must have carried her through to her bedroom then sat by her. She feels a twinge of jealousy as she realises that while she suffers medically, he is still strong enough to lift her in his arms and across the hallway. He strokes her hair softly.

 

"How are you feeling?" And his voice is filled with the type of concern she thought old men only ever had in films when they spoke to children. She squints.

 

"Mm... Awake. Hungry. Why are yer here, anyway?" He allows her to prop herself up, her clothes rumbled from her sleep, and her leg hurting a little. She looks at him and waits for a response.

 

"You may hate me. I've gone and delved into the past." She narrows her eyes.

 

"The past?"

 

"As in I've hatched a marvellous scheme, sweetheart. One which you may or may not like." He pauses and she waits, knowing he will continue. "Yer not going to an 'ome." She gasps and her brain whirrs, trying to think of any conceivable situation as to why that situation is going to happen. "Because I am looking after yer." He stops, and Martina freezes. Part of her wants to be indignant, to ask him why the heck he thinks he can just choose to care for her when she's perfectly capable as she is thank you very much. But another part of her wants to thank him, as he's saved her from a room full of terminally ill patients where her very life force would be drained out of her slowly. Instead, she settles on asking him a question.

 

"How did yer sort that out?" He bites his lip and looks like a naughty child, not a pensioner.

 

"Through a little bit o' charm and a couple o' white lies," he pauses and licks his lips, "I may 'ave told yer doctor that I was yer, er, other half."

 

"I beg your pardon?!" Martina is getting more and more confused by the minute.

 

"Yer partner. Not 'usband, just close male companion. And the doctor was fine with me lookin' after yer, said you hadn't told him there was someone else around. Though 'e was clear that if it gets too much fer me I can put you in the 'ome for respite care." Martina is shocked, she can't move. Joey has claimed to be her romantically attached partner. Joey Boswell. Just so she doesn't have to be the victim of some over eager nurses at a home. The man has only just reappeared in her life, and he is ruling it once more. Look after her? Him? But then she remembers that he's lonely too, Roxy forever plaguing him, his family fine without him now (although how even Billy can manage without Joey now is beyond her, she must ask what saintly woman has picked him up sometime). And so, she thinks, having him about the place might not be too bad. As a sort of carer. She can pretend that he's her partner if she doesn't have to go to a home because of it. She smiles at him.

 

"Well, well, well, Mister Boswell, after all the years o' me lookin' after you by providin' yer with forms, it is time for you to start looking after me." He grins wolfishly, and for a moment, a brief, brief moment, they're back in the eighties and are across the counter from one another again - cat and mouse; truth or dare; cops and robbers - a game of wits.

 

"Oh, but, dearest Martina, don't forget, this would make me eligible for a carer's allowance, wouldn't it? Legally." She tries not to smile, and looks him dead in the eye.

 

"Yer ain't gonna claim on account of me. They're stricter nowadays, you know. Now, can I 'ave a cup o' tea, o' love o' me life?" He throws a necktie hanging on her cupboard at her, and laughs.

 

"Lazy bones." And then they're laughing again, and nothing can go wrong, they've got each other now, and retirement can't get any worse.

 

And so it continues. When Martina is well, she busies herself by going about her life as normal. When her illness becomes strong, Joey takes charge, making her food or washing her clothes or doing her shopping. And Martina finds that it is more enjoyable when he's about the house. He goes with her to the doctor for her chest scan results, and they're told that it is pneumonia, but only mild pneumonia, and this course of antibiotics should clear it within the next month or two. And it is the best news they've both heard in a long, long time, and Martina realises that now, she doesn't want to die, she's got a best friend (can she call Joey a best friend?), a companion, and life isn't that boring when you have somebody to play Scrabble with when the rain is pouring outside and the afternoons are long. The doctor smiles as they leave, and makes the crudest comment she has heard in a long time. She hates that cocky upstart even more. Back at her bungalow (she has to say, having a lift in Joey's car is more comfortable than the rattly old bus), Joey wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him. Laughing, he says

 

"Well then, I am reassured that just because you have a gammy leg it doesn't mean we can't enjoy the physical side of a relationship. I promise I will be gentle with yer like the doctor told me to." She can feel him laughing and she pushes his chest.

 

"Honestly, what an awful man. Though he seemed thrilled to see you, Mr Joseph Boswell." She laughs along with him, coughing as she does. "When did yer last introduce yerself as that? Even at the DHSS you were Joey."

 

"Ah, but that's because you, dear lady, were gorgeously and hopelessly attractive and so I felt compelled to be informal with you. I didn't propose to every person I met, you know." Martina and Joey sigh as they fondly remember the times gone by, when a wink and a cassette tape were all that were needed to brighten a day. 

 

"The only proposal I ever got, that. I treasure it." Martina replies drily, still happy that she's not going to die. She isn't going to die. 

 

"I always wondered about you, you know," Joey propels her to the sofa, the first time they've actually used it since he has been visiting her bungalow. Propping her leg up, he continues "Pretty, intelligent, witty. Why didn't yer get married?"

 

"Nobody wanted to marry me. I wasn't lucky in love." Martina shrugs, and leans on his shoulder slightly, they've got so familiar these last few weeks. "You got married. Where are yer now?"

 

"Livin' in me marital home that me wife left, tryin not to cry over a divorce." He sighs. "Perhaps you got it right. Perhaps bein' on yer own is the way forward."

 

"Loneliness is painful. But so are breakups. You know what I think?" She looks up at him nervously, conscious of how old they are and what conversation they're having but she's also over the moon because she's got a bit longer to live. She's gone from wanting to die to being content with her old age. And he's the reason why. He's looking down at her now.

 

"What do you think?"

 

"I think we try too 'ard to find a relationship. We don't look fer love. I reckon love is a misconception. We think it is beauty, desire and all those things. But actually, I reckon it is contentment, humour and all sorts of other little factors that seem insignificant. Love takes time, I reckon. People don't realise." She readjusts her leg, and Joey looks down at her, his eyes sparkling like they used to, and a smile on his face. Yes, Martina thinks, he's older, but my oh my, he suits it. He's still bloody handsome. Not that she's ever going to tell him that. He's still quite self-conceited.

 

"Martina? I've always said it, but I shall say it again. Yer brainy and yer beautiful. You should write that love theory down. It sounds pretty accurate to me." He pulls her closer to him, and both sit like that for a while, in companionable silence. Then Martina is coughing again, straining and wheezing and Joey rushes to find her medication so she can take it and head to bed to sleep off the effects, and he can let himself out using the spare key he's been given, and return before she wakes in the morning. 

 

And so that's how it continues for the next few weeks. Joey helps Martina with her condition, and she sleeps, takes her medication, eats what he cooks for her and plays Scrabble when she's up for it. Soon, she's better, and Joey isn't really needed anymore. She's back to being a smart old lady again. They return to the docks, and sit side by side, watching the water lap at the sides. Martina feels calm now, not melancholy. It is cliché, she knows, but she can wholeheartedly say that once, a few months ago, Martina was living to die, and now she's dying to live. The chance reappearance of Joey Boswell, over three decades since she last saw any remnant of his family, has seen to that. A gull flies past, cawing. A shopkeeper comes and has his afternoon smoke. Martina turns to Joey, and smiles. The afternoon sunlight is fading, casting the docks in shadow. The shopkeepers have locked up and gone home. She's never stayed at the docks this late before; she's always had to catch a bus in plenty of time, but he's offered her a lift back. Together, in the serene silence of the shadowy buildings, they watch the sunset, and both feel at rest. She turns again to find him looking at her fondly, and she remembers the first time their eyes met on this very bench, and how his eyes were almost unrecognisable with lack of emotion. Now, they're sparkling again, full of joviality and fun, more than old people are probably allowed to have, but she's decided that she's had enough of boredom, from now on she's going to be a happy retired woman, and Joey Boswell can come along for the ride of he wants to. His eyes are sparkling, and his face is coming closer to hers, but she can't work out if that's because he's moving forward or she is or they both are but then their lips have met and for the briefest of seconds she's young and free and feminine again. All too soon, they're back just looking at one another, and the darkness is setting in. He stands, and offers her his arm.

 

"Come on, your walking stick wants to go home."

 

"Technically, if it is my walking stick it has to live in my home."

 

"Stood in the hallway, or elsewhere? Do your walking sticks get special treatment?"

 

"That depends on how well behaved they are. Chauffeurs too." They've reached the car. The rapport, the slightly flirtatious banter between them has always come easily, has never gone away. But now there's another, more mature edge to what's being said. They reach her bungalow, and he enters without her having to ask him to anymore. She locks the door and heads to the kitchen table, where he's already sat. She leans on it and smiles.

 

"So, Mister Boswell, to what do I owe the pleasure today?" He falls into it as easily as she does, they're living through their old lives.

 

"Well, oh woman of ice, I was just coming in for a quick claim. A little something to warm me up for a while. Something to defrost that face o' yours. Just a little kiss not under the mistletoe." He leans forward, quirks an eyebrow, and despite the fact that she's lived her life without loving anyone, and she's meant to be old and past emotion, her lips tingle as she leans forward, murmuring 'oh, only a kiss?' and their lips join again, just as briefly as at the docks, but with a crackle of emotion Martina isn't sure it is possible for old people to have. They lean back, and Joey grins.

 

"You have no idea how many years I spent dreaming about kissing you over a partition," and that statement is so truthfully said, Martina can believe every true word of it. She smiles.

 

"Well, it isn't as if I didn't think about kissing yer smug face to shut yer up once in a while admittedly." And then they're looking into each others eyes again, seeing everything they've always seen, but only now they're older and wiser understanding the subtext of it all. They don't want to voice it, not yet, but Joey clearly doesn't want to let this go, and Martina doesn't blame him; she doesn't either. She stands up shakily, and he raises himself too, coming round to join her. It is there, in her kitchen, as she balances herself against the solid wood table so as not to fall, and he wraps his arms around her waist to steady her further, that they share a searing kiss that Martina isn't sure is entirely appropriate for her age. In all truthfulness, she isn't aware that she would ever have thought it appropriate to move her tongue against Joey Boswell's at her time in life, and want it to continue. It really has been a long time since she had proper close and intimate contact with somebody, back when her body was strong. They stop, and she presses her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat out a slightly irregular rhythm. She bites her lip like a teenager, and glances up at him.

 

"Joey? You could always stay the night, you know. There's only one bed though..."

 

Later on, Martina lies with her head pressed against Joey Boswell's chest, hearing his heart beat out a rather irregular rhythm. But then she remembers what she's been doing for the past half an hour or so, and realises that it probably isn't something designed with elderly people, especially those with osteoarthritis of the knee, in mind. His arms circle around her, and he kisses her head gently. A gentlemanly gesture for the old gentleman next to her.

 

"Martina?"

 

"Joey?"

 

"I knew this would happen when I told the doctor I was gonna look after yer. I win." She laughs.

 

"Actually, I've always said I've been out to get you, Mister Boswell, so I win, since I knew this would happen years ago if you're working along that theory." 

 

"Shush, you. All I know is it looks like yer stuck with me for a while yet." Martina smiles: Joey Boswell around for a while longer? She would never have wanted that before. Now though, now she can handle it.

 

 

Years later, Martina lies with her head pressed against Joey's chest, listening to his heart beat out a steady rhythm. A pattern dances on the ceiling from the Christmas lights on the tree in the next room. The heating is on, their winter fuel allowance covering the heat in their home. Yes, their home. Joey has sold his old marital home, cast away the memories of Roxy and his previous life, and now in half of the wardrobe in the bungalow hangs a leather jacket and other such Joey items. They lie together in bed, their love evident in how they've stuck beside each other since their chance meeting at Liverpool docks that day. And, for the first time in their retirement, they feel peaceful, and they want to live for as long as possible, as they've found a reason to stick around on Earth a bit longer. They still go to the docks to watch the water lapping against the sides. They still exchange the borderline flirtatious quips with one another, because that's how they work. Cat and mouse; truth or dare; cops and robbers - it's a game of wits.

 

But, at the end of their days, they're happy, and Heaven knows they deserve to be, after all they've been through.

 

 

~finite~

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this fic was a mixture of Waiting For God; Joetina and At The End Of The Day.


End file.
